


Bride of Wolves

by TheSultansDaughter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Consensual Underage Sex, Daenerys is raised in Westeros, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Queen Daenerys, R Plus L Equals J, Sexual Violence, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-10-26 07:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSultansDaughter/pseuds/TheSultansDaughter
Summary: When it’s just them alone in her chambers, the cold summer winds whispering outside her window, Old Nan tells her that she is fire made flesh and that is why she is never cold.Daenerys Targaryen is raised a ward of Winterfell and is betrothed from infancy to marry Robb Stark and become the Lady of Winterfell.She becomes Queen in the North instead, and then Queen of all.





	1. Chapter 1

When it’s just them alone in her chambers, the cold summer winds whispering outside her window, Old Nan tells her that she is fire made flesh and that is why she is never cold. 

The smallfolk in the villages surrounding Winterfell call her a winter princess for her silver hair, white skin and the silvery wool gowns Lady Catelyn always had her wear. Her only colour is the pink of her cheeks in the cold and piercing violet eyes peeking out from under her fur lined hood. Before Daenerys arrived as a newly born babe, bundled in furs, the smallfolk of her north had never seen a Targaryen in the flesh. 

When she and Robb, her betrothed, steal moments in the godswood away from prying eyes, he sings her the same verse of a song while stroking her hair. She thinks it’s the only song he actually remembers the words to. He sings quite badly, always off-pitch like a harp with broken strings, but his voice and sentiment soothes her all the same

_“I loved a maid as white as winter  
with moonglow in her hair.”_

Winterfell is her home, the only home she’s ever known. She hopes to never leave it. 

The Starks are her family, not in blood or name, but in all the ways that mattered. The Targaryen blood in her veins was a foreign to her as the far-off shores of Pentos and the dark plains of the Dothraki sea. 

It was Ned Stark who held her chubby hands as she toddled her first steps across the Winterfell’s courtyard to a delighted Catelyn. 

Sansa who sang Valyrian songs of chivalry with her by the tower window while she strummed a harp. Arya and Bran who she chased about in the woods, playing hide and seek around the weirwood tree with Rickon.

Theon who she comforted when he first came as a hostage to Winterfell. He taught her how to savour the Dornish sour they stole from the cellars and made vulgar jokes to make her giggle. 

Then there was Jon. Ned’s bastard son who was always brooding or hitting something with a sword. Dany thinks he knew her best of all, even better than Robb. When she couldn’t sleep she would often find him in the kitchens swirling watered down ale around in a wooden cup. 

She would tell him of her dreams, while they sat by the last glowing embers of fire and eating leftover meat pies, three candles melting to nothing on the table. 

Dreams where she rides through the plains of the south mounted on the largest wolf the world has ever seen, her skin turns black with scales. Other times she dreamt of blue winter roses growing from between the blackened bodies of knights and ruined towers. 

_“Do your dreams scare you?” he would ask solemnly._

_“No, but mayhaps they should."_

Of course, there was Robb, her beautiful betrothed, her brother and her lover. With his russet hair and eyes blue like the raging sea at White Harbour. He was adventurous, bold and taught her to spar with a sword in secret. He was the first of the family to call her Dany. As a toothless toddler, Daenerys had been a bit much for him to say.

Even with all the love Dany had for her family and they love they had for her, it was only Robb who did not clumsily trip and tiptoe around her ancestry. Even sweet Ned, whom she called father, was uneasy about it. But not Robb, never Robb, who called her his fierce Visenya.

She does not know if it is only these words that make her love him more than all the rest, even more than Jon. 

In truth, her and Robb had already wed, many times over, just the two of them under the weirwood tree in the moonlight. Sometimes a drunken Theon would serve as Dany’s escort, but more times than not Dany gave herself away willingly to the man her grew up with. 

The Targaryens had wed brother to sister for hundreds of years, and even though they were all but gone except for her, Dany happily gives Robb her maidenhead, her brother of sorts.

**

They wed for true when Robert Baratheon and his court arrive at Winterfell. Dany finds the man who defeated her sire to avenge his lost love to be a drunken brute. He stomps his feet impatiently in the godswood while she and Rob say their vows in front of the godswood and can barely keep his eyes open when they wed again in the candle lit sept at sundown. Catelyn say the maiden cloak she wears belonged to her mother the queen, rich black and scarlet velvet embroidered with a three headed dragon lined with rubies and onyx. It's more heavy than beautiful and Dany can't help but feel unburdened and at ease when Robb cloaks her with Stark grey.

Despite her new sigil, the Baratheon king calls her a dragon spawn without shame and gropes serving maids. His golden queen leers at her curiously and his children either sneer or cower away from her. 

Inside herself Dany feels fire; her hands are curled so tightly into fists under the table her nails leave red crescent moons on her palms. 

Few things bring Dany joy at her ruined wedding feast:

Ser Barristan Selmy, an honourable knight presents her with illustrated books depicting the histories and legends of the Seven Kingdoms and other works in High Valyrian. When she opens them later by candlelight in her room, the margins are covered with delicate swirls of handwritten notes. Jon shyly gifts her with a beautiful dagger with a curved blade with a pommel in the shape of a wolf.

A fat Pentoshi merchant who has business with Lord Manderly presents her with four petrified dragon eggs from the shadow lands beyond Asshai. The guests gasp and fawn at the sight of the eggs nestled in an intricately carved wooden chest. 

The Baratheon king splutters with a quiet, drunken rage at the eggs but thankfully the bedding is called by Theon and Harrion Karstark. The pair of them scoop Daenerys up in their arms and out of the hall before the stag can charge.

**

She and Robb make love by the roaring fire, their limbs tangled together on top of the fur rugs and blankets piled up on the floor. The bedsheet of the featherbed stained with a false maidenhead lay rumpled and forgotten. Daenerys' true maidenhead was given in the godswood years ago away from the prying eyes and ears from behind the door. As Robb sleeps in her arms, breathing steadily, she strokes his russet hair. 

All she can think of is how they had all stared at her in the courtyard, the deafening silence. Even the wind had quieted. Before the sneers and the king’s quick disappearance into the crypts, there was shock, almost as though the royal court had seen a ghost. But who’s? 

**

Everything crumbled after their father rode south. 

“Call the banners,” Dany says firmly to Maester Luwin through heavy breaths, her hands holding the raven’s scroll trembling something fierce, not with fear but with fury. 

“All of them, my lady,” the master replies gently taking the scroll out of her hands. 

Robb’s hand holds her waist tightly, she can feel his fury too. Theon is close to them, sitting at the table in the great hall.

“They’ve all sworn to defend our father, have they not?” Dany demands. “Now we will see what their words are worth.”

There’s a poignant pause as Robb guides Dany to sit next to Theon, her hands are still shaking.

“Aren’t you both afraid?” asks Theon.

“No.” “Yes.”

“One of you is brave and the other is stupid, I just can’t tell who yet.”

**

Dany remembers her last conversation with her father where the rolling green hills met the Kingsroad.

_“The last time we were here you were only a girl,” said Ned, remembering the time he took her and Robb with him as he toured the north and visited his bannermen. _

_“Must you go?” Dany asked pulling at the reins of her white stallion, pale grey cloak billowing in the wind behind her. “Must Jon go to that retched place? He should be at home with his family, as should you father.”_

_Ned told her something or other about Stark honour, but Dany wasn’t really listening, she was more preoccupied with Jon’s form disappearing north, the thought of Sansa enamoured with that vile blonde thing, Arya so far from the only place she could be wild and free. Would she and Robb ever see their father again? And of course, there is the other thought on her mind, one that she dares not speak aloud._

_“You must protect the North in my absence Dany. You and Robb both,” he says while placing his gloved hand over hers. “You are a Stark now. You may not have my blood, but you have my name.”_

_Ned leans in and gives her a lasting kiss on the forehead. He reads her silence and the desperation in her violet eyes like well-worn pages of a book he’d read ten times over._

_“The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your brother. I promise.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Daenerys is raised in Westeros AU from me. This came to me when I was thinking about how people in Westeros and the North in particular thought Dany wouldn't be a good queen because she was a foreigner. But what if she wasn't? What if she was raised in Westeros by a prominent family and stayed in Westeros for her entire journey?
> 
> This will eventually become a Jonerys fic. When I say eventually, I really mean eventually. Daenerys will be going on quite the journey across Westeros and have other relationships/arrangements before she and Jon are reunited. So please be patient. And there are a few things I've left vague on purpose to answer later.
> 
> Also: Dany is going to have four dragons. Why? Because why not.
> 
> Let me know what your thoughts are. :)


	2. Chapter Two

They begin their march from the Neck with an army at their backs. Daenerys is always at Robb’s side. She dawns an armoured breastplate, leather breeches and riding boots under her high-necked grey gown. She cut off most of the skirt with her dagger, leaving the hem just below her knees. A quiver of arrow at her back and a sword and dagger at each hip. 

Her pretty silver hair is braided and arranged on top of her head like a crown. Their direwolf Grey Wind trots behind them happily, but he is the only one smiling.

Half the northern banner men had found it disgruntling to see her dressed as a warrior leading an army as her husband’s equal, the other half said she was Visenya come again. Robb proudly calls her his warrior wife. He loved her beauty, but he loved the iron beneath it even more. 

Smalljon Umber and Harrion Karstark call her the truest northerner of them all. A white winter lady on a white horse. Daenerys never felt more powerful or regal like when she rode her Silver.

**

Every night she and Robb fuck frantically in their tent as they journey south; their father was captured; they had no time for sweetness anymore. 

Her chest of dragon eggs arranged amongst candles were the only light in the darkness. As Robb slept soundly she would venture towards the chest, as though the eggs were calling to her. Daenerys would place one of the eggs in the coal warmer, letting it simmer before picking it up. The heat felt like a light tickle across her palms, but it never hurt her, never left a mark. 

Fire could not kill a dragon, she thought, and it seemed that dragons could not sleep either. 

Dany carefully untangles herself from Robb’s splayed limbs, tugs on his breeches and tunic and grabs the black dragon egg from the chest. When she couldn’t sleep she would hold the eggs against her stomach, close her eyes and pet the rough scaly ridges like she would Grey Wind’s fur. Other times she would read one of the books Ser Barristan had gifted her, tracing the elegant handwritten notes in the margins with her fingers wondering who had written them.

“My lady,” 

Dany’s eyes snap open and she turns towards the remnants of the campfire and the great stone walls of Moat Cailin behind her. Had she wandered outside, she couldn't recall? Even in the night, lit only by a few torches and the burning embers at their feet, she recognizes Ser Jorah. A swarthy and muscular man with kind eyes. He always looked upon her pleasant reverence. He’s sitting on a log by the hearth cleaning his long sword, the blade gleaming in the moonlight. 

“My apologies princess, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says quietly. 

“No apologies necessary Ser,”

For whatever his reasons were, Ser Jorah insisted on calling her princess. She wasn't a princess, the north hadn't had royalty for hundreds of years.

Daenerys sits next to him on the log, still cradling her egg, a soft cool breeze ruffled her hair. 

“Were you at prayer?” asks Ser Jorah, looking down at her egg curiously. 

“No,” says Daenerys. “War is not a time for prayer. And anyhow, I think the gods have stopped listening to me.”

There’s a beat, Ser Jorah furrows his brow, as if confused. 

“What do you pray for Ser Jorah?”

“I pray for home, princess,”

Ser Jorah was recently returned and pardoned from an exile in the Free Cities. He had done some favour for the Baratheons apparently. Some say he killed, others say he stole and cheated and spied. His sister and niece were annoyed at his return. Daenerys believed they wished him gone again for the disgrace he brought upon their family. But they needed every sword they could get, even if Daenerys reviled slavery.

Dany looks down at her egg, closing her violet eyes. She imagines Winterfell in the darkness as she clutches the black egg, dark like the stonewalls of her home. Dark like the kitchens in candlelight with Jon at her side, dark like the sky above the godswood holding Robb in their bed of grass and leaves by the pond. She wonders if Bran and Rickon are sleeping soundly, or if they're plagued with uneasy sleep too. Was Jon cold at the Wall? Had he received her raven? Did he ever think of her and how she had begged him not to go after Bran's fall, her violet eyes pleading him, her hands gripping his sleeve in the corridors of Winterfell. Jon should be here, she thought. At her and Robb's side, where he belonged.

“I pray for home too. For Winterfell.”

Suddenly, Jorah is chuckling to himself as he polishes his sword. 

"Is something amusing, Ser?"

“You know, I remember the first time I ever saw you my lady,” Jorah begins. “You were a babe still, but all the lords at the gathering knew you by your hair. Some of them, the Glovers in particular, weren’t happy to see you toddling about Winterfell after their son had been held captive in the Red Keep. They thought perhaps Lord Stark should have given you the same fate as your brother Prince Viserys.”

_Viserys_ Dany thought sadly. Another brother she would never know. They had forced him, a sweet silver boy of eight, to gently fall asleep and never wake again. In her dreams he has a round face and eyes like her, wide and awake and alive. She never dared to speak his name aloud, but she liked to whisper it to herself. She liked the way the sound slid off her tongue. Would she have loved him? Would he have read her bedtime stories of their ancestors and myths from across the Narrow Sea?

“It’s said the entire North heard Lord Stark’s icy rumbles that day. ‘Daenerys Targaryen is my daughter now. She is my daughter in every way that matters and you my lords will treat her as such. She is my daughter and when she comes of age she will rule as lady over this keep, marry my son and have my name. She will be of the North, all of us will see to it.’”

“No one spoke ill of you after that,” says Jorah. “Eddard Stark loves you well, like you were his own blood. And the lords of the North, they honour you most fiercely.”

Their banner men were loyal to her, respected her, loved her as they did all of the Stark family. They had listened quickly to her call to arms and banged their spears fiercely against the ground as she first addressed them with ferocity at the Neck. Robb had been proud of her that day. He had told her so. Proud to stand at her side at the head of their army.

Dany says nothing, still nursing her egg. Her father, where was he now? In a cell somewhere? Or worse?

“He is my father,” Dany replies with a sad smile. 

Dany sniffs, still clutching on to that egg and gives Jorah a piercing look. “We can’t stop until he and my sisters have been freed.”

**

Dany settles back under the furs next to Robb still wearing his clothes and, her precious egg now nestled in with its companions in the wooden chest. She hears Jorah’s voice say the name over and over in her mind. _Targaryen._ It was her name once, still her name, would always be her name in a way. 

_Daenerys Targaryen._

And yet, no matter how many times she’s written it down under her Septa’s watchful gaze or how many times she’s said aloud it never felt like it belonged to her. She was the only Targaryen left alive except her frail uncle at the Wall. Her brothers were gone, her mother was gone, her sire and his mind gone long before her birth. The last Targaryen, and yet, this great name was as foreign to her as the stories of her supposed ancestors. 

Sansa had embroidered her handkerchiefs with little red dragons, like the ones she saw in her dreams, the eggs in the wooden chest called to her like lost ghosts, and yet, Dany is a wolf. A wolf on fire perhaps but wolf all the same. 

_A Stark of Winterfell. Ned Stark’s daughter. Robb Stark’s wife. Sansa’s sister._

She lays her head on Robb’s chest to hear his heartbeat, her favourite sound in all the world. _Thump, thump, thump_ like the sound of Dothraki drums across the sea. When his heart would stop beating one day, like the hearts of all men, Dany would bury him in the crypts of their home and when her time came she would be next to him. But that day was years away. 

**

It's her idea to split the army in half. 

There is great debate amongst their allies as to how and when and where and why, but with Robb’s support she convinces them despite Lord Manderly’s grumbles. 

Their uncle Brynden Tully agrees that she is a capable commander, for a woman. 

“Woman? Is that meant to insult me uncle,” Dany quips playfully with a wry smile, throwing a pitted walnut at Brynden’s nose. He chuckles heartily as he picks the walnut up between his fingers and then eats it with a resounding crunch. 

Catelyn’s brother had always been fond of her, even though the last time her saw her person was when she was a slip of a girl, barely seven-years-old in the Winterfell courtyard. He’d taken to always sending her gifts from the south: trinkets, toys and fabrics. 

“I mean it only as a compliment. I didn't realize Lord Eddard taught his daughters as much about warfare as his sons. I can't imagine my niece Lady Cat would have been pleased about it,” he says. 

Catelyn has been displeased to find out that Robb and Jon had been teaching her about their lessons when she was supposed to be at prayer in the sept, but it hadn't stopped them from continuing. Daenerys would like to imagine her father would be proud of her now.

“My wife is quite the woman,” says Robb beaming, moving some of the cyvasse pieces across the map. “The Lannisters won’t see us coming.” 

**

Dany’s hair tumbles down her back as she unpins the braids from atop her head. She and Robb are alone in their tent, the map is unattended but no forgotten, candle wax dripping all over the frayed edges. Wine and scraps from dinner with their mother were there too. She had arrived that afternoon to tell them everything of the debacle that had transpired at the Vale with Tyrion Lannister. She and Robb had been furious to say the least, losing the imp meant losing a bargaining chip.

As she massages her scalp with one hand she wanders over to her chest, opens the lid and runs her fingers along the scaled edges of her eggs. Greywind is curled up next to her chewing a bone, she uses a foot to pat his soft fur.

“They aren’t going to disappear, you know,” says Robb stepping out of the water basin as naked as his nameday. 

Dany peers at him over her shoulder to admires her husband’s handsome form, she would have crossed the room and taken him already had it not been for the mounting anxiety inside her. 

“What if Walder Frey won’t let us cross?” Dany asks stepping back over to the map, her finger tracing the River Trident and then resting at the Crossing. “The plan will work, even without more men, but without the damned bridge, we’ll be lost. Sansa and Arya…” Dany didn’t want to even think about that. “What if he tells mother no?”

“He won’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’ll be the one to convince him.”

Dany’s eyes widen incredulously. “Me. You’re sending me? I’m supposed to stay here and inspect the troops with Lord Bolton. That’s what we agreed. Don’t go back on your word. You said we would do this together. As equals. To fight alongside you.”

She’s clutching the edges of the table; her temper is slowly starting to rise.

“Dany, please,” says Robb, tossing the washing linen into the basin with a resounding splash. “We need to cross the Trident, and we need to do it, tomorrow without delay. You know that. There is no one in this world that I trust more than you. Not even mother. Trust me. Walder Frey will listen to you, I know you can convince him.”

“With what? Genna Lannister is his good daughter. He’s as good as on their side already and anyways, Uncle Brynden says he’s not to be trusted. The man is a weasel.”

“Go with mother and Theon and Ser Jorah, find out what he wants, and give it to him. Marriages, money. Father would do whatever it took to secure our crossing if he was here.”

Robb wraps his arms around her from behind, the dampness from his skin seeped into her shift, her breath quickens. 

“Remember,” he begins whispering in Dany’s ear before turning her in his arms to face him. He places a finger under her chin, tilting her face up to look him in the eyes. “If we look back we’re lost.”

**

Walder Frey’s keep is a dumpy sort of place with a musty smell that makes Daenerys upturn her nose and retch in her throat. His squabble of children and grandchildren are like a swarm of ugly flies around the high hall. 

Dany wears the one gown she didn’t hem. It is made of dark grey velvet trimmed with light grey fur on the sleeves and the Stark direwolf finely embroidered on the bodice. Her black leather riding breeches are hidden under her skirts. The braids in her hair are arranged like a crown again. 

Theon stands close to her. 

“I don’t like the way that Ser Jorah looks at you,” he had said as they rode towards the Frey gates, ahead of the others and out of earshot.

Lord Frey looks is as ugly and old as was said, it takes everything in her not to retch when he gives her hand a sloppy wet kiss. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the last dragon,” he says with a creaky scratchy voice. “What have I done to deserve such an honour. Have you finally come to pay respects to your brother Rhaegar. Robert Baratheon smashed his skull not too far from here as I recall.”

_“The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your brother. I promise”_

Dany swallows and shifts her weight between her feet, her father's last words to her ringing in her ears like an echo. She can feel her sheathed dagger pressed against the inside of her leg under her skirts. She wants to burst with rage at Lord Frey's careless words. But now was not the time. There would be time for rage, for fire and Lannister blood.

“Lord Frey, we thank you for your most warm welcome. We are here to ask you to open your gates. So, my husband and our men may cross the Trident. We’re willing to negotiate terms, if that would please you.”

“What kind of terms?”

"Have you ever seen a dragon egg Lord Frey?"

**

In time, they do cross with a few hundred fighting men from House Frey. The price being marriages for Theon, Edmure, Brynden and Arya and the promise of one dragon egg as a wedding gift. 

**

Robb returns to her drenched in blood and sweat and victory with Grey Wind at his side and their army at his back. He brings her a gift too; Jaime Lannister in chains. 

**

“Renly Baratheon is nothing to me,” bellows Lord Umber, drawing his sword. Dany is next to Robb, silent and watching as their banner men discussed their next course. Robb’s arm is draped around her waist. 

She’s wearing a pair of Robb’s breeches underneath her long grey fur cloak. were easier to ride in and to fight in. Robb had not allowed her to join him in the Whispering Wood, but she had overseen the successful attack on Riverrun from atop a hill. 

But oh, how Dany wished to be in the thick of it with their men. Though Dany was skilled and could hold her own against any of the boys or castellans at Winterfell, even defeat Dacey Mormont on a good day, open battle was another story entirely

“What do they know of the Wall or the Wolfswood? Even their gods are wrong!”

Dany couldn’t help but chuckle with the rest of them. Of all their bannermen, Dany had always been the fondest of the Umbers. She’d stayed with them once when she and Robb had been taken on progress with their father. GreatJon was like an uncle to her, he taught her to string a bow and his bawdy japes always made her giggle. Had she not been destined to marry Robb, Dany thinks SmallJon (who was not small in any sense) would have made her a good match.

“We shouldn’t we rule ourselves again. It was the dragons we bowed to. And now the last dragon is one of our own! A true north woman.”

He points his sword towards her and Robb passionately. She places her gloved hand on Robb’s shoulder and squeezes. Grey Wind lays curled up their feet in the cold, wet grass. 

“There sits the only king and queen I mean to bend my knee too.”

Every northerner around them has unsheathed their swords, toasting to their new king who stands before them, clutching his wife’s gloved hand. 

Theon is the first to shout for her personally and kneel at her feet in reverence: _Queen in the North_. Before long her new title is an echoing chant in the night. She wonders if the river winds have carried it to King’s Landing so her sisters and her father can hear. Or if the old gods had carried it north to Jon. 

Robb whispers it in her ear as he fucks her gently in their bed at Riverrun that night. 

_Queen in the North whose name is Stark._


	3. Chapter Three

That morning as they lay draped in furs, basking in their victory and each other Dany finally decides she will tell Robb that she is two moons along with their child. Old Nan had always told her to wait at least four moons before telling a man, but she couldn’t wait. 

When she tells him, Robb lifts her above the ground like a child and spins her about, the lush greenery of the Riverrun’s gardens becoming a blur around her. She’s spinning and spinning and spinning. Robb is laughing with tears in his eyes telling her how happy she makes him. When was the last time she had truly laughed? She can’t recall. 

Telling this secret will be the end of her sparring days for now, but to see Robb smile again makes it worth it. They feast instead of planning their westward campaign that night. Robb couldn’t contain his joy for long. Her uncles Brynden and Edmure embrace her kindly. 

Harrion Karstark presents them both with bronze circlets decorated with black iron spikes that remind her of their father’s great sword. 

**

The last time Dany had seen Jaime Lannister, he’d been beautiful in his golden armour riding away from Winterfell on his steed. He’s still beautiful now, she thinks, even muddy, bloody and stinking his own shit in the dark. 

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. 

She enters his makeshift prison, followed by a snarling Grey Wind, clutching the swell of her stomach hidden beneath her pale grey cloak held together by a Stark sigil pin. Dany’s hair is unbound hanging over her shoulder like a curtain made from cloth of silver. Jaime’s stench makes her nauseous. 

She’s wearing Robb’s clothes again, his fresh seed dripping down her left thigh. 

“Ah, if it isn’t Lady Stark the younger. The last time I saw you we were dancing at your wedding feast.”

It was true. King Robert had made them do it, for his own drunken amusement. How funny it was to him to make the bride dance with the man who killed the sire she never knew. A sire she didn’t even consider a father. Ned Stark was her father, kind and gentle and strong. Her real father. 

“I’m afraid I’d make a poor partner from down here, my lady. But, if you untie me we could do more then dance,” Jaime sneers. “You can’t tell me that child husband with a child-sized cock satisfies you.”

Dany turns on her heels as if to leave, inhales heavily before spinning back around and striking Jaime Lannister across the face with her sheathed longsword. 

Jaime winces but keeps talking after spitting a mouthful of blood onto the mud. 

“I am Queen in the North, you will address me as such Kingslayer,” she seethes, gripping her sword.

“Ah, there she is, the little dragon come out to play at last. Or perhaps you are a wolf now after all, since the Starks have tamed you, you even call Ned Stark your father. I wonder what mad old Aerys would have to say about that.”

Dany grits and grinds her teeth, silently snarling, like a wolf, or perhaps something else more deadly. She takes her sword again, striking Jaime across the other cheek. This time she hears a sharp crack. He retches more blood. He goes limp, letting his head drop towards his chest. 

She turns on her heels again in the mud. What a waste of time. What had she been hoping to gain? 

“You look just like him, you know,”

Dany stops, left hand clutching her sword, her head cranes back over her shoulder, long hair whipping towards her ear. Jaime is still slumped over, visibly withering in pain from the second blow. 

“Like the Mad King?” Dany asks in an almost whisper.

“No. Like your brother, Rhaegar.”

_“The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your brother. I promise."_

Jaime Lannister had her attention now. 

“It’s uncanny really. Beautiful, noble Rhaegar Targaryen with teats. You even have that annoying sad look in your eyes all the time.”

There’s a pause but Dany says nothing though there are hundred of slights and spites on the tip of her tongue. Jaime continues, some blood pouring out of his mouth and dribbling onto his tunic.

“You should have seen how Robert sputtered at the sight of you at Winterfell. He looked as though he’d seen ghost when you took out that pretty harp of yours.”

Her harp was back in Winterfell, exactly where she’d left it, laid gently in its chest on the stone sill of her window that overlooked the moors beyond the keep’s great walls. Sansa had loved that harp.

Dany grits her teeth again, desperate to keep herself in check and all the questions flooding her mind and her heart at bay. She hates herself for it, her curiosity.

“Did you know him well Ser Jaime?”

“Well enough. He was a better man than his father, of that much I’m sure. He had a good life too, before he threw it all to shit to run off with Lyanna Stark.”

A lull of pain washes over Dany, her plump lips forming a straight line. _Lyanna._ Dany had seen her statue in the crypts of Winterfell. 

“He didn’t run off with her, he kidnapped her and raped her.”

Jaime scoffs and spits out yet another mouthful of blood before an eerie smirk forms on his lips. It sends shivers down Dany’s spine.

“Your brother was many things your Grace, but I doubt he was a rapist. A man that pretty wouldn’t need to force a woman to bed.”

“Are you telling me that it was all a lie?”

“I don’t know what happened after Harrenhal, I won’t pretend that I do,” Jaime begins as he fidgets in his restraints. 

“All I do know, is that when Rhaegar gave those blue flowers to Lyanna Stark, she was the only one smiling.” He chuckles darkly. “Everyone seems to forgets that she was smiling.” 

_Smiling._

**

Robb is holding her, his hands on her belly, and Dany wills herself not to think of Jaime Lannister’s words. Of Rhaegar’s beauty and Lyanna’s sweet smile. 

When she ponders on what Lyanna’s smile might have been like all she sees is Arya, or was it Jon? Their pretty grey eyes, grey like Dany’s favourite cloak lined with white fur, and the Stark banner blowing in the wind. 

Robb shifts in his sleep pressing closer against her. When he was tender like this, she can almost forget their terrible row from a three days ago. Their mother said it was the war that caused them to disagree. They had spoken harshly in quiet voices with clenched teeth. 

Dany can’t decide if she likes war or not. She can’t deny that the clang of her sword against another filled her veins with sweet excitement or that watching Robb stride towards her with his face and armour drenched in enemy blood made her sex more wet than it ever has been. She loved to see his sword drenched in Lannister blood. What would it taste like she wondered, like Robb’s cock in her mouth, like wine, or perhaps sweeter? 

Suddenly, the babe shifts within her.

She hopes it’s a boy with Robb’s russet hair and Jon’s eyes. A little wolf prince who will rule Winterfell, protect the North and never need venture south of the Neck. 

Dany feels Robb shift against her, his member, now soft, still inside her from their second tryst. His hot breath is against her neck. She needs not see him to know what he looks like right now in the dim light of their room in Riverrun: his hair mussed, boyish face sprinkled of copper stubble on his jaw and a dusting of freckles across his nose. As he sleeps she remembers that they are both but five and ten. He should be a child still and she is still a young girl. But here they are, fighting a war, their child in her belly. 

Dany sighs. How she loved him; her husband, her brother, her lover, her King. 

All her life, Dany thought she knew her destiny: to be Lady Stark of Winterfell, safe and tucked away from the south with the name she’d always dreamt of bearing. To be a wolf like Robb. 

She lived in a strange state of existence; to be taught of her the greatness of her ancestors, to speak their tongue perfectly and yet be ashamed of them: The Mad King, Rhaegar…Viserys.

All she had of them was her four whispering eggs that she cradled like she imagined she would cradle her child when he was born.

Little dragon, that’s what Jaime Lannister had called her first. Ser Jorah called her Princess and now she was Queen in the North. Queen of a kingdom who had lost a lord to fire at the hands of her own sire. 

Robb had tried to convince her the one and only time they talked of it, that a daughter shouldn’t be blamed for the sins of her father. A father she never knew. Robb told her that he loved her, their family loved her, and all the North loved her. No one blamed her. To them she would always be Ned Stark’s daughter.

Ned Stark’s daughter? Did he ever look upon her face and see the man who stole his sister? 

Suddenly, Dany gasps and then moans under breath. Robb is awake now, his hand still on her growing belly, his cock hardening inside her. He starts thrusting deeply, rutting against her. The pleasure of fullness frees her from her scattered thoughts. 

Robb nibbles on her neck, whispering filthy words and sweet nothings, his hand never leaving her belly. When he spills his hot seed, he stays inside her again, not moving, kissing her shoulder.

“I know what I want to name him,” Dany starts hesitantly. “But I’m not sure anyone would approve.”

Robb tugs her even closer, wrapping his arms around her, nuzzling his face into her hair. “You can our son whatever you’d like. Anyone who opposes it will have to face me in combat,” he teases.

Dany chuckles. “Even mother?”

Dany and their mother had not been on the best of terms of late. The tensions of war and their grief causing them to snip at each other constantly. 

“I’ll speak with her,” he smiles. “What is this mysterious name, pray tell.”

“Viserys," she says hesitantly. "I should like to name our son Viserys. For my brother, the one the Lannisters poisoned.”

Robb pauses and then hums in approval drawing Dany even closer. “’Tis a kingly name for our little prince. Viserys of House Stark, King in the North.”

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

**

When they told her of her father’s execution she hadn’t moved or made a sound for days. When they told about Arya’s disappearance she had thrown a vase across the room in a fury, smashing it to pieces against the stone wall of her chamber in Riverrun. 

But when they had told her about Theon’s betrayal she had screamed and screamed and screamed leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. Pieces of wooden furniture she had hacked to pieces with her sword, shards of glass from broken mirrors littered across the floor and a cask of Dornish sour spilled all over the Myrish carpets. 

Dornish sour had been their favourite. 

Only her chest of dragon eggs remains unharmed. 

Robb held her for hours. She could tell he was holding in his anger for her sake. 

“I wish I could take you home,” whispers Robb, stroking her hair, one hand on her stomach. 

“You will. But first we must win. If we look back, we’ll be lost.”

**

As the bells toll at daybreak, Daenerys and Lady Catelyn are on the battlement of Riverrun watching Robb ride westward.

Catelyn is clutching her hand tightly. The tensions of war had caused them to bicker of late, but the joy of Dany’s child, their grief and their worry of Robb bring them together again. 

Now all they can do is wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I wanted to get this next instalment out before I start a new job tomorrow. Also: knowing that you are all enjoying this story really keeps my creative juices flowing and my motivation high. I appreciate everyone who takes the time to read this :) 
> 
> For all of you worried about the dragon egg, I can't give too much away, but in the end the egg will stay where it belongs!


	4. Chapter Four

Dany clutches the underside of her growing stomach as she runs through the candlelit corridors of the Crag. Ser Jorah and Harrion are leading the way through the darkness, their armour clanging against the cold stone floor. Her breaths are laboured, her thighs aching from riding hard through the night from Ashemark. Dany can still hear the remnants of victory from outside: a mix of men dying, drinking and singing. 

The maester at Ashemark had warned her not to ride astride in her condition, but she had ignored him. Her son loved the saddle, kicking happily at the same pace as her horse across the dusty road. 

When they reach the tower chamber Dany slams the creaky, rotting door open. The fire is roaring in the hearth, rusted candelabras line the walls with fresh candles creating an orange glow and a thin girl with a mop of chestnut curls sits by the bed. There’s a small table of maester’s tools and potions next to her. Dany can hear her singing something soft under her breath. 

“Move, now,” Dany snaps, gesturing to Harrion to remove the girl from Robb’s side. 

Dany sits in the girl’s wooden stool once she's been escorted out and examines her husband. His wounds are clean and neatly stitched, but his cheeks were still tinged pink with the end of a fever, russet curls soaked with sweat. 

“Dany,” Robb rasps, his voice is as dry like his lips. He tries to reach up to brush the tendril of silver hair from her face. “Dany, you’re here.”

Daenerys shushes him, stroking his warm cheek. “Don’t speak, save your strength.”

“Dany, please. Let me speak, it’s important. I need you to hear it.”

She squeezes his hand, brushing his curls away from his forehead. “What is it, my love?”

“If I don’t survive this, you will succeed me. Be my heir.”

“Don’t say such things. You will live. You will.”

“But if I don’t, you will succeed me as sovereign, be Queen in the North in your own right. Finish this war and get Sansa back. Go home to Winterfell.”

“Sansa should be your heir, until our son is born,” says Dany, moving Robb’s limp hand to her stomach hoping her could feel the life inside her womb. 

“Sansa is trapped, and you are here.”

“But I’m not a Stark, not truly. And I am not your sister.”

“You are as much my sister as Sansa. You are our father’s daughter and you are my wife, my queen. You will succeed me, as your King I command it.”

Dany realizes she’s crying, hot tears rolling down her cheeks that splash into her lap, their son is still kicking steadily inside her. 

“Sleep now, my love. You need to rest,” she says taking a linen cloth soaked with cool water to his brow.

She sits with Robb in the orange glow until he’s sleeping again, a few drips of the poppy still on his lips. 

**

Her room in the Crag is drafty and musty. It shocks her that this is the finest room in the keep, Lady Sybell's own chamber. The yellow velvet hangings around the great four poster bed smelled damp. The only decorations in the room were seashells carved into the stone walls, but many of them were cracked, whatever paint had been there is faded. The contents of Lady Sybell’s boudoir were strewn across the dressing table: some rouge, a salve, a hair brush, and some delicate jewelry that appeared to be heirlooms from when the Westerlings were still a great house. 

The fire was roaring in the hearth, but it made no difference to the cold. 

Dany had Ser Jorah and some other knights carry in more tables from other rooms in the keep. One for candles to light the room, a second table to hold her maps and papers and a third for her chest of dragon eggs. She had developed the habit of bringing the four of them everywhere with her. From the North to the Riverlands and across the Westerlands the four eggs went. Robb often teased her and called her sitting hen waiting for her chicks to hatch. 

The only man she trusted with them was Harrion Karstark. 

Harrion was with her now, sitting across the table. Dacey and Ser Jorah are standing guard outside the open door. The maps were spread across them in an organized chaos, small pawns covered each castle and keep under their control. Dany is pondering the map with a furrowed brow, biting her bottom lip. Her black dragon egg is perched on her growing stomach. Her time was nearing, and she was always uncomfortable. 

“Why me, Harrion,” she asks as she strokes the ridged scales of the black egg. “It should be our son, or Sansa or Jon. Not me.”

“My Queen, Lady Sansa is a hostage in the capital, your other siblings are dead or lost and Jon Snow is a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch now,” says Harrion pouring himself another cup of spiced mulled wine. “And forgive me, Your Grace, but unborn babes cannot command armies. You’re the only one left that can continue to lead us to our aim.”

_What aim?_

“How can I lead the North Harrion, I am only a young girl and I am not a Stark. Just look at me,” she replies gesturing to her silver hair pulled back into northern braids and the egg in her lap. 

“You’ve proven yourself tenfold, my queen. You’ve planned attacks with the king that have won us great battles. It was you who called the banners when the Lannisters imprisoned your father Lord Stark. And it was you who rallied us at the Neck. The men love you, Your Grace. They would follow you to the ends of the world if you commanded it.”

Dany sighs, getting up from her chair to place the egg back with the other three. She’s pacing a bit now, back and forth, back and forth. 

“We’re winning battles yes, but we aren’t winning this war. Sansa is in their clutches and we no longer have the Jaime Lannister as a bargaining chip. We need something, something that the Lannisters would be lost without.”

She’s peering at the map, tracing the edges of the western coast with her fingertips, a few tendrils of hair tickle her forehead as she studies. 

“Harrion,” she says suddenly after a few moments of silence. “Fetch Lord Bolton, Lord Umber and your father, and I want full report on the state of all our men.” 

“Of course, my queen, but it’s the middle the night, they’ll be asleep.”

“Wake them, I need them. We march tonight, into the lion’s den.”

**

As Robb rests in his sick bed, Casterly Rock falls. 

Dany watches atop her Silver with wide-eyed wonder as one of the white turrets burns with orange brilliance against the sunrise over the western shore. There is something about the flames that fascinates her. She wonders if the heat would tickle her skin like her dragon eggs did after they rested on coals.

When Lord Umber tells her how proud her father would be, she nearly weeps. 

**

The Rock is as splendid as Dany imagined it would be. The white marble and gold finishings, the colourful portraits and murals on the walls, there is even a whole corridor of marble statues. All of it leaves in her and her personal guard in visible awe as they walk through the corridors. Some of Lord Wyman’s men are replacing all the crimson banners with direwolf on grey. The Stark standard was already blowing sharply in the wind above the gates. All of Lannisport knew the Queen in the North held their liege lord’s seat. Soon enough the realm would know as well.

The moment Dany sits down in the Lord’s seat in the high hall, her waters break. 

**

Viserys Stark is born one moon early in Tywin Lannister’s bed. He’s pink and screaming and healthy with a thick dusting of downy auburn hair on his little head. Even the enraged Genna Lannister, who is now one of their hostages, admits that he is a sweet cherub of a boy. 

Dany is sitting up in soft featherbed draped in crimson silk sheets and soft cotton blankets, feeding Viserys from her own breast when Robb sweeps into the chamber as if he were never injured at all. 

He’s at her side in an instant, kissing her brow and then her lips whispering how much he loved her. She gently lifts their son into his strong arms. Robb rocks him hesitantly, admiring his every little breath, movement, gurgle and yawn. 

“He has your eyes Dany,” Robb marvels before handing little Viserys back to her. 

It was true, their sweet tiny prince had startling violet eyes to go with his Tully hair. 

“I wish everyone was here,” says Dany wistfully. “Father Arya, Sansa...”

“I know, I know,” Robb kisses her forehead again and strokes her hair gently. 

They sleep in the same bed again for the first time in moons, just holding each other, while their son slept in his crib, waking them every few hours to be fed. 

Dany watches her eggs as she feeds her son from a sore, full breast. 

They haven't whispered to her for a few moons. When she listens, she hears nothing but silence and Grey Wind howling outside her window.

**

They set up court at Casterly Rock. Robb sits in Tywin’s lordly seat, Dany is always at his side, bronze circlets proudly upon their brows.

Their son rests in a gilded cradle they found in what must have been the nursery. Dany wonders if Tywin’s children rested their heads in it at one time? What was Jaime Lannister like as a child? Was he sweet with clever smiles or did he cry and cry until he drove his wet-nurse mad?

As far as they know, the word has spread throughout the realm, that the King and Queen in the North have taken the seat of House Lannister for their own.

When Catelyn arrives from Ashemark she tells them that they are too bold. Robb retorts that this is war and this castle, and its riches is all they have now. It was the only real bargaining chip they had left since she let Jaime Lannister slip from their fingertips. 

**

The moment the midwives and the maester confirm she has healed from childbirth, Dany steals into Robb’s bed like a rabid wolf, only she is starved for his touch instead of meat. Most women would have been embarrassed by the softness of their bodies after giving birth, but Dany is to hungry to care.

Robb watches mesmerized as her enlarged breasts leaking with milk bounce up and down as she rides him in Tywin Lannister’s bed, the crimson silk sheets bunched up around her waist. They don’t rest until they’re too exhausted to move and Dany has peaked five times. 

When they’re curled up together, Dany’s head resting on Robb’s stomach, his hands stroking her hair.

“The men say a song has been written about us,” he says bemused. 

“What kind of song,” Dany asks.

“Apparently we’re Aegon and Visenya come again, or was it Aegon and Rhaenys, I can’t recall anymore.”

“Is it any good?” 

Before Robb can answer, Dany hears Viserys start to cry from the adjoining room.

**

As it turns out, there is more than one song, and all of them are the same. While the singers proclaim she and Robb are Aegon and Visenya come again, they mean that she is Aegon and Robb is the woman. 

They sing of her Valyrian beauty and call her the conqueror of Casterly Rock. They say she is the one who wears the armour, and Robb the gown. 

Others call her a dragon or the Mad King’s daughter. One calls her the bride of wolves. 

She does what she can to get the songs away from their little court, but there is only so much she can do.

If the songs bother Robb, he never lets on. 

**

Dany is full of fury as she stalks the halls of Casterly Rock, her feet bang across the floor as she whisks by servants. Sheets of rain beat against the windows, the skies are black.  
She throws open the door of the solar and finds Robb at a desk covered in parchment. 

“Can you explain to me why you had Harrion’s father thrown in the dungeon!” she says harshly. 

Robb sets down his quill and looks at her with narrowed eyes. “He disobeyed his King.”

“What.” Dany couldn’t believe it.

“He slit little Martyn Lannister’s throat, almost killed his brother and then beat Emmon Frey into a pulp.” 

“He couldn’t have.”

“He did,” Robb spits. “And he called it vengeance for his other sons.”

Dany clenched her fists, her face twisted with anger. “All he wanted was the justice he deserved.”

“Is it justice to slaughter children and then beat the son of our ally!” bellows Robb slamming his hands down on the desk. “He will lose his head for this Dany.”

“You can’t behead him, he is our bannerman, Harrion is our friend. He would never forgive us. We can’t afford to lose more men then we already have.” 

“We wouldn’t have lost more men if you hadn’t taken Casterly Rock in the first place.” 

“How dare you blame this on me.” Dany is nose to with him now. She imagines the whole keep can hear them screaming. “Mother lost us the kingslayer, we needed something to barter with. Do you really think Tywin Lannister would trade Sansa for a pair of nephews and his ridiculous good son?” 

“No, I didn’t. But he won’t give us Sansa for Casterly Rock either and now Lord Frey will be more furious with us than he already is.”

Theon betraying then had left the old goat short a groom for one of his daughters.

Robb shoves a crumpled-up piece of parchment into Dany’s chest. She quickly undoes the damage and reads a letter Tywin himself. 

“They married her to the imp?” Dany gasps with disgust slamming the letter onto the desk.

“If Tyrion Lannister gets a son on Sansa they’ll have a claim to the north, they could take Winterfell while we’re dawdling in the Westerlands. What kind of King am I if I lose my own seat?” 

Robb gives a bellowing roar and picks up a chair that goes barreling across the room and breaks into pieces against the marble wall. 

Dany lets him stomp out of the solar and slam the door behind him. Once she’s alone she smashes a vase onto the floor and screams.

**

Daenerys sits elegantly like one of Tywin’s white marble statues on the lord’s high seat in the great hall of Casterly Rock when they bring Rickard Karstark before her on his knees. Her violet eyes are cold, baby Viserys is swaddled and in her arms, bronze circlet upon her head.

“My queen..” he begins before Dany lifts a hand to silence him. 

“You may thank the fondness my husband the king and I have for your son and our gratitude for your service for the mercy I am about to bestow upon you Lord Karstark. You will keep your life, you will ride with us to The Twins for my uncle’s wedding and from there you will ride north, to the Wall, and join the Night’s Watch for your crime.” 

Lord Karstark starts to protest speaking of justice owed and due. 

Dany ignores him as she descends the steps of the dais and across the hall clutching her baby in her arms, her head held high. 

**

She puts a sleeping Viserys in his crib and goes immediately to her chest of eggs. The chest is sitting on what she assumes to be Tywin Lannister's desk. She already opened all the cupboards in the chamber. In some chests she found clothes and linens. In others she found papers and letters and account books. In one box she found a woman's jewels including many ruby necklaces and pearl bracelets. In a chest under the bed she found a portrait of a beautiful golden haired woman and a few letters addressed to 'J' from 'A'. All she finds in them is poorly written poems from a love sick fool. 

A fool, that's what she feels like now, listening for voices in her wedding gift.

Dany runs her hands delicately over each of her dragon eggs: the black, the green, the white and the silver. Daenerys closes her eyes and listens, hoping to hear their whispers, but all she hears is the fire crackling in the hearth. 

_If I look back, I am lost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back with another instalment! Yay! Thank you again to everyone who is leaving kind comments and sharing their opinions respectfully. Getting emails with kudos and comments seriously make my whole existence. To know you're all enjoying my little brainchild as much as I enjoy dreaming it up means the world. 
> 
> I know a lot of you are asking about jonerys and are anxious about it happening. It will happen. That is the plan, like my tags say, it's an eventual jonerys fic. But just like in canon, it's gonna take some time for their paths to cross. Things will likely make a bit more sense after chapter five in terms of the direction I'm taking.
> 
> Stay tuned for more coming next week.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: canon-typical violence, sexual assault, off-screen murder, off-screen murder of a child, description of dead bodies, attempted suicide, self-harm.
> 
> You can skip to the end if those triggers are too much for you!

As they ride the winding roads from the Westerlands through the Riverlands, Dany daydreams of Sansa, her sweet smile, soft auburn hair and the way she would whisper tales of romance after bedtime to help them fall asleep when they were children. 

She thinks of Sansa when she strokes little Viserys’ auburn curls and when he giggles. His disposition is sweet, his cheeks are pink and he rarely cries, just like Sansa had been like at that age, according to their mother at least. 

Was Sansa crying now? 

The last time Dany had seen Sansa cry had been many years ago. Their father had taken them, Robb and Jon to a festival in White Harbour that Lord Manderly had begun hosting every year after the war to foster trade with the Essos. Merchants, tradesmen, and mummers’ tropes from the Free Cities came had come for two weeks. 

She and Sansa had marvelled at the bright colours of the pavilions, the foreign music, the blue haired Tyroshi magicians, Qartheen acrobats and merchants selling jewels from Volantis. 

Yet what really intrigued them was a crimson pavilion with a wooden sign outside written in four languages including the common tongue advertising a fortune teller. 

Sansa had been absolutely delighted at the thought of finding out who should would marry when she grew up, how many babies they would have, if she would be a great lady or marry a brave knight.

Dany remembers being hesitant, there was no light coming from the inside of the pavilion, only a dull glow that must have been a torch or a candle. Yet there was something that drew her towards the light. 

Sansa marched in first, saying she was a big girl and would be out in a moment. Dany stood outside waiting, picking at the fur trim on her gown, her violet eyes darting from her sleeves, to the ground and back to the tent. What was taking so long? Why was there silence? 

She calls out for Sansa and starts walking carefully towards the pavilion, one foot in front of the other when Sansa bursts out running as fast as she can, her face swollen with tears. Her red hair streaming behind her like a banner whipping in the wind.

Dany marches in herself, to rain fire on whatever the fortune teller had upset the daughter of Lord Stark. 

The pavilion is dark and stinks of incense, the woman behind the table would be enough to make any sensitive child cry with her red lacquer mask and dark watery eyes. 

“Have you come to hear your future, my lady?” Her accent is foreign, one that Dany can't place.

“What foul thing did you tell my sister?”

“Truths that are yet to come to pass.”

Dany finds herself sitting, entranced by the lacquer mask. “And what foul thing shall you tell me fortune teller?”

“Ask and you shall receive.”

“Who will I marry?” she asks knowing the answer is Robb. 

“Four mounts you must ride: one to bed, one to dread, one to spite and one to love.”

Dany furrows her brow. “Will I accomplish anything good as Lady of Winterfell?”

“Four fires you must light: One for life, one for death, one for vengeance and one for love.” 

“Vengeance? Will something bad happen to me? Or to my family?”

“Four treasons will you know, once for blood, once for gold, once for life and once for love.”

“You don’t make any sense. What does any of that mean and what are you hiding behind that mask?”

Dany reaches quickly for the mask, but the fortune teller’s hands grasp her tightly placing them against the hard, shiny lacquer, those dark watery eyes almost disappear, turning into black pits. 

_“A cup of ice, a cup of fire. Child of four. The dragon must have four heads and not three. Four and not three, four and not three. Four mounts, four fires, four treasons. Bride of death, bride of wolves, bride of vipers, daughter of dragons, slayer of lies, queen of fire...”_

Dany manages to retch away from the fortune-teller’s iron grip and run from the pavilion back into the crowded festival, ignoring her riddled cries from inside the dark pavilion.

Her strange dreams started that night while she slept in a guest chamber at New Castle. The dreams about fire and wolves and blue roses growing amongst corpses on ashen ground. She never tells anyone what happened in the pavilion except for Jon. 

Jon almost convinces her that it was all nothing. That it was just some mad old woman and to think nothing of it. Not to be frightened He almost convinces. Almost.

**

Things with Robb hadn’t been the same since their row at Casterly Rock while it stormed outside the Volantene glass windows. He treats her as tenderly and courteously as ever in front of their troops and bannermen, but he hasn’t touched her in private. Their little son sleeps between them every night, but Robb won’t even kiss her brow. 

She tries to confront him before they inspect their garrison at Ashemark, but he walks away running his hand through his overgrown russet hair that hangs by his shoulders. The stress was weighing on him. At Riverrun Robb had looked like such a boy, now his stormy blue eyes bear the woe of many years. Sometimes it reminds her of their father.

They’re one week away from Riverrun when she hears singing before entering their tent. 

_I loved a maid as fair as summer  
with sunlight in her hair._

_I loved a maid as red as autumn  
with sunset in her hair._

_I loved a maid as white as winter  
with moonglow in her hair._

Dany stays hidden at the tent’s entrance watching with a wistful smile as Robb sings terribly but tenderly and splashed little flecks of water at Viserys as he played in his tiny washing basin. Dany wonders if their own father had been like this as Robb scoops Viserys into his arms, still singing the same verse over and over again while wrapping Viserys in linens to dry him off. 

“You still haven’t learned the whole song after all these years,” Dany teases making her presence known. 

Robb chuckles while bouncing a gurgling Viserys in his arms. 

“Do you remember Rickon at his age? He never stopped howling.” 

Hearing their brothers name for the first time since Theon’s betrayal makes something lurch in Dany’s stomach for a moment. 

“The gods have blessed us with a sweet son…he’s so much like Sansa, isn’t he?” Dany takes Viserys from Robb’s arms and cradles him close. 

“Yes…yes he is. He has her hair too.”

Robb seats himself on their travelling bed, removing his tunic and letting it fall onto the grass. Dany sits next to him tentatively, her bottom barely grazing the pallet, her body is tense, yet she still feels like glass that could shatter at any moment. 

She finally relaxes a little when Robb wraps a strong arm around her shoulder. One of his fingers strokes Viserys’ plump pink cheek.

“Do you remember the first time we got caught in the godswood?” asks Robb playfully. 

“Of course. Mother was so furious with us. How old were we? Three and ten, I think? Gods, it feels like a lifetime ago.”

Robb laughs. “She dragged us both by the ears, as naked as our name days back to the keep. I don’t father was ever so speechless. I thought we’d both get a thrashing, but he just sent us to bed.”

Dany remembers that she had snuck out of her room later and overheard their parents arguing about it. Their father had been quiet and simply said that at least she and Robb were betrothed, that it hadn’t been someone else. At the time she had been confused, who else could it be?

Now she knows he must have meant Jon. 

“I can’t believe we kept getting away with it. Sneaking out at night,” says Dany with a cheeky smile and a wink she looks over to Robb. His eyes are not as burdened as they had been of late. In fact, his eyes look like they're laughing, the way they used to look before this war.

He’s quiet for a while, just staring at her with his laughing blue eyes. “You’re my queen,” he says stroking her hair, kissing her lips. “And I love you, do you hear me Dany. I love you.”

**

It’s dark in the gardens at Riverrun when Harrion finally makes his way towards her. The last time she was here, Viserys was still tiny inside of her belly, Robb had spun her around like she was a weightless feather floating and their war still had an end in sight. Where were they now? What was their purpose? She didn’t know anymore. Was it possible to win every battle and still be losing? 

“Do you have what I asked for?” she whispers to Harrion, peering around the garden to make sure no one was watching. 

Harrion hands her the sack and she removes the contents, admiring it under the moonlight. The fake dragon egg was slightly too grey compared to her silvery one that sat safely in the chest.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing Your Grace. Walder Frey is not a man to be crossed. Not like this,” says Harrion. 

“He won’t know that we’re crossing him. It will work I’m sure of it.” She hands Harrion back the egg and the sack. “Did you take care of the merchant?”

Harrion nods and Dany steals away back into the castle. Her uncle Edmure is drunk, slumped over a table in the great hall. He doesn't hear here whisk past.

When she arrives in her chambers, the maids had left extra blankets and Grey Wind was curled on the floor by the bed. She rubs his belly lovingly before opening her chest to find it empty. Her eyes widen and she whips her head around at the same the antechamber door opens and Robb peers his head out from behind the door. 

He’s smiling. “Come,” he says gesturing her to walk to the door. “I have them.”

Robb takes her hand and leads her into the chamber. There, in each of the four corners of Viserys’ cribs are her eggs. 

“They say that every time a Targaryen child was born, his parents would put a dragon egg in his cradle to see if it would hatch. It seems our son will have four.”

“Our son is a Stark, and so am I.”

“And he’s a Targaryen, just like his namesake.” 

Robb pauses for a moment and smiles softly as he rubs Dany’s back. She lets her head rest on his broad shoulder and places her hands on his thigh. She can feel his warmth, even through his leather breeches. 

“We’ve never truly talked about them, your other family, your brothers. You shouldn’t be ashamed of them Dany. Even if your sire was bad at the end… You’re descended from dragon riders and great kings Dany. You’re the very seed of Aegon the Conqueror, and so is our son. You’ll always be a Stark, but don’t forget who you are.”

**

Dany watches Robb sleep that night, unable to find rest herself. She strokes his hair and traces his handsome features with her finger tips. His words from before echoed in her mind over and over again. 

Her ancestors rode dragons, Ser Jorah had once called her princess and Jaime Lannister had called Daenerys Targaryen. There had been another Daenerys before her she knew. All were princesses, many made great marriages with noble houses to bring peace to the realm. Perhaps she was more like them than she thought. Perhaps she could be Daenerys too. 

She was born a Targaryen princess. The Lannisters and the Baratheons may have taken away her title but they could not take away the blood that flowed through her veins. She was the seed of Aegon the Conqueror, like Robb said. More than that, she is a queen and a conqueror in her own right. She had taken Casterly Rock and planned the victory at the Whispering Wood. 

They called her the Conqueror of Casterly in minstrel’s songs. No one called her Daenerys the Conqueror but she imagined they would soon enough. They would all be lost if they didn't

**

When Daenerys finally finds sleep that night, her eggs whisper to her again for the first time in many moons as her violet eyes lull close.

**

They arrive at the Twins and it’s as terrible, dreary and cavernous as she remembers as she eats the bread and salt offered to her. There were a few garlands of posies, aconite and orange lilies that hung from the walls and were draped across the tables and chairs. Lord Frey makes a crude compliment about her figure and her fuller breasts. Dany smiles through her disgust and presents him with the egg Harrion had procured for her. She had left him in charge of protecting the real ones in an encampment away from Frey land with a few men he trusted explicitly. 

Lord Frey accepts the gift with fanfare, awe and a toothy mischievous grin that shows off his horrid teeth. According to Lord Frey the egg somewhat made up for the fact one of his daughters would not be the lady of the Iron Islands. Robb goes as red as his hair at the reminder of Theon’s betrayal. It pained them both so much that they never spoke of it. 

_Four treasons you will know…_

What makes Dany tense is Lord Frey’s insistence to hold Viserys. It takes all of Dany’s strength to take her child from Dacey’s arms and pass him to Lord Frey. The moment she does Viserys begins to wail. As she steps towards Lord Frey to retrieve her son, Dany can feel her dagger press against her leg underneath her skirts. 

Thankfully Lord Frey is quick to return him, and Dany sends Dacey, a maid from Riverrun and Ser Jorah along with some other men away from the High Hall to one of chambers they had been given. A wedding feast was no place for an infant, but Dany could not bear to leave him behind at Riverrun. He would be safe with the Mormonts

**

The wine is cheap, the food soggy and the music worse but Edmure gets a pretty bride after all. Roslin Frey is as delicate as a newborn doe with brown eyes that remind Dany of roasted chestnuts. Brynden is not nearly so lucky. Amerei Frey is sweet, freckly and notorious. Becoming the Lord of Derry Castle was not what Brynden wanted. Dany knows he would have preferred to stay at Riverrun all his life. Hopefully he would forgive her in time.

As the watered down arbor gold continues to flow, Dany dances with Edmure and Bryden, GreatJon and a Frey who’s name she can’t recall. 

Even Lord Bolton takes her for a stiff turn around the high hall. His icy blue eyes were as unsettling as always. She dances with Robb last to whatever awful rendition of La Volta the musicians were strumming. La Volta was a dance from Dorne that she adored and had made Robb learn it. 

They had danced it at their wedding feast four times. 

Today they make do, skipping along to a beat of their own making across Walder Frey’s sticky stone floor. When Robb lifts her in the air it feels as freeing as riding across the northern plains on her Silver. 

**

When they call for the bedding, the men had become so drunk and boisterous Dany’s scolds did nothing to calm them. 

Lord Bolton is sitting next to her. His icy eyes looking back and forth across the emptying hall. Not that Roose had ever been a particularly amiable person, but he was often more talkative when he ate. Dany found it odd and asks him what the matter is. He shifts uncomfortable and says it’s the food. 

The guests, mostly Frey brothers, cousins and some of her and Robb’s men carry out the teary-eyed sisters. Roslin is sobbing quietly and Amerei becomes paler than she had before. In fact, Amerei looks terrified. Dany thought it was odd that a girl called “Gatehouse Ami” would be nervous for her bedding. Perhaps she feared Brynden would disapprove of her lack of maidenhead?

When the doors close behind them with a heavy echoing thud, the hall feels hollow like it had that morning when they arrived. The musicians begin playing a melancholy tune that Dany can’t quite recognize. Catelyn gives her an odd look from her place at another table across the hall. 

As the song draws to a close, the air is eerie and Dany turns to Lord Bolton again, she touches his arm to get his attention when she feels it. 

“Robb!” she screams but it’s too late, the arrows have already pierced his back and his leg.

She tried to run but Lord Bolton grabs her out of her seat, pining her to the table, she lands directly into a dirty dinner plat with a horrid splat. 

If only she could free her hands, her dagger is pressing sharply against her leg hidden in her boot. She can’t see what’s happening from the position Lord Bolton is holding her in.

The doors of the hall fling open and she hears the footsteps of what must be two or three dozen men marching. She can hear her mother screaming for mercy and making threats, Robb’s painful groans and the sound of arrows and swords over top of her own struggles for breath. 

Suddenly Lord Bolton is manhandling her from the table to the centre of the hall, forcing her to walk. She resists, but he just drags her feet across the floor. She continues to struggle helplessly in his iron grip, desperate to somehow reach her dagger. 

“Roose what is wrong with you, unhand me. I am your Queen!”

“What a pretty princess of a wife you have King in the North. It’s much too bad we’ve ruined her pretty gown,” cackles Lord Frey pointing to the stain on the bodice. “Someone relieve her of it please.”

One of Walder’s son’s rips open her bodice open with a jagged blade, exposing her to the musty air. A little sob rings from her lips as she continues to struggle in Lord Bolton’s tight grasp. 

“Don’t touch her. Don’t you touch her! Dany!” rasps Robb. She can see him struggling to get to his feet from the corner of her eye, feel the pain in his voice, see the blood beginning to pool on the floor. He manages to stand, but his legs are shaking violently from his wounds “Don’t touch her.”

“Ah yes, very pretty, motherhood truly does become you.”

Horror washes across her face and all Walder Frey does is laugh. _Viserys. Her son. Where was he?_

“Do what you will with her,” says Walder with a shrug as more arrows come flying and pierce Robb in the chest. 

Her mother is still screaming and there is more commotion, but Dany is pinned down under Lord Bolton on the floor. It’s covered with crumbs from dinner and spilt ale and wine. Her breasts ache against the stone but still she struggles, refusing to give up. Robb needs her. Her mother needs her. Her son needs her. 

“Robb! Mother! Robb!”

Lord Bolton flips her over onto her back, she tried to use the moment to grab her dagger again, but he’s too quick and her skirts are too heavy and long. Instead she scratches his face with her nails, creating long bloody scratches on his pale cheeks. 

The calm, eerie, emotionless demeanour he held through the whole evening snaps into anger. He grabs her roughly by the shoulders and bangs her head against the floor. 

“The Lannisters send their regards,” he whispers into her ear, his breath hot and foul. 

The last thing she hears before the world goes blurry and black is Grey Wind’s howl from somewhere outside.

**

Her head is pounding when she begins to wake, her vision is still hazy. Wherever she is, it’s dark and moist, the ground his hard against her back. There’s only a dull orange glow somewhere in the distance. She can hear water dripping against the ground. The air smells like the outdoors, like moss and dead leaves and murky pond water. 

When she tries to move, her head aches even more and there’s a sudden sting between her legs.

“Where am I? Where’s Robb? My son?” she can barely recognize her own voice, it's course and dry like the worst of a cold she had as a girl where couldn’t speak right for two weeks. When she tries to get up a pair of strong hands and a similar scent guide her back down on to what must be a straw pallet. 

“Stay still, my queen. You must rest.” At last, some familiarity in the darkness. 

“Harrion, Harrion, where is he? I need to see Robb” 

“Please drink this, it will help with the pain.” She accepts the bitter liquid and lets it trickle down her throat with tiny gulps. Before long she’s asleep again. 

**

Her dreams are vivid, familiar and strange all at once. She dreams of castles made of ice with towers full of vipers that hiss and bite her ankles. She dreams of the blackened corpses again lost amongst a field of winter roses blue with frost. She dreams of Casterly Rock’s tower burning collapsing under its weight. She sees Sansa hiding behind a curtain on a mountain and Jon running from creatures made of rotting flesh and eyes that shined like sapphires. She dreams that she's flying over the Trident, little red lights twinkling from the river banks below like rubies in the light. She hears whispers and her father’s head on a spike.

If she dreams of other things she cannot recall them. 

When Dany opens her eyes again she can see more clearly although it’s dark. There’s a straw pallet beneath her and she’s covered by a pile of dark cloaks that seem to serve as blankets. There’s a rock under her head and the air still smells of earth. She’s in a cave. But where. 

She tries to stand, but her legs are weak. 

“Gently, gently, my lady” The man’s unfamiliar voice makes her jump. He has a scraggly beard and wears pink robes.

“Who are you? Where is Harrion.”

“Thoros of Myr at your service, Princess.”

“I am a queen, and I demand that you tell me where my family is.”

She hears footsteps as she lays back down on the pallet, the pain in her head flaring up again, her legs heavy like armour. 

“My queen, you’re awake.” It was Ser Jorah who had arrived, not Harrion. He is at her side in an instant, taking her hand gently in his. 

“Ser Jorah, where is my son. I want him, I want to see him. And my husband, King Robb…”

Ser Jorah says nothing, just squeezes her hand harder. He looks lost as if he were at a little boy caught in the dead-end of a garden maze.

Dany uses his hand to make herself stand even though it’s hurt. 

“Tell me where my son is, I command it!”

**

When Ser Jorah tells her what they did to her little son, she retches and then faints and falls to the ground so hard and fast, she bangs her head and forgets.

When she wakes again, it’s Harrion who tells her. This time she gives a blood curdling scream that echos off the walls of the cave and tries to steal his dagger to cut open her wrists. She manages to make a deep nick before Harrion, Ser Jorah and the man in the pink robe, Thoros, wrestle it out of her hands. 

When she wakes a third time, the wound on her wrist is neatly stitched and bandaged with linens. The last time anyone had bandaged a wound for her was when she was a girl at Winterfell. Maester Luwin had done it under her mother’s careful watch. 

“Where is my mother,” she whispers in the dark, still half asleep. “I want to see her.”

“Your mother is with the gods Princess.” It’s Thoros who answers, not Harrion or Ser Jorah like she expected. 

“No…no, not Rhaella, I mean my real mother, Catelyn Stark. Where is she. I want my mother. Where are you keeping her? Take me to her.”

Dany finds the strength to stand and stumble passed Thoros of Myr and through the narrow passage of the cave. Some melting candles light her way.

“Princess, please wait! You’re not strong enough!” Thoros calls after her. She can hear his footsteps behind her, but someone with every last bit of strength she has she is quicker. She realizes she’s wearing a man’s black tunic that hangs below her knees, her silver hair is messy and unbound. 

The fading late afternoon light blinds her for a moment as she stumbles into the encampment of small tents and fire pits in a clearing surrounded by thick woods. She sees men she recognizes from the ranks of the northern army; she also sees men she doesn’t recognize, some look like smallfolk, others like sell swords and rough hedge knights. Many of them are standing around something, looking down. She recognizes the back of Harrion’s head.

He must have felt her presence because he comes to her quickly and bows. “My Queen. It’s best if you don’t look.”

“Look at what? Show me,” she seethes, her voice is still raspy, her legs are shaking and knocking together from the chill in the air. They must be near the Trident she thought. She could hear it.

Harrion sighs and frowns as if in defeat before offering her his arm. They walk through the crowd of men, all of them parting, many of them starring at her with wide eyes, sad eyes or blank eyes. Not a single one of them had the look of joy or even neutrality. Others bowed to her.

_I am a Queen. I must be strong._

When she sees what Harrion had been trying to hide from her, she finally understands, falling to her knees with a thud and wrenching sob. She didn’t care who heard. She didn’t want to be strong. Perhaps for one moment it would be alright to be weak.

There they were. 

She lifts her hands out to touch, but all they do is tremble violently.

There was Robb, her husband, his body beaten and bloody and destroyed. His head lay next to the rest of him.

There was Grey Wind, his head also severed, eye wide open. Her eggs, all four of them were there too.

And then there was her mother. If it hadn’t been for the gash across her pale throat, she could have just been sleeping. She had so much to say to her. So many things to ask and to say sorry for. So much wasted time.

“Mother. Mother wake up. Mother please wake up. I’m sorry. Please wake up.” Dany shakes her but it’s no use.

Dany runs her shaking hands across Robb’s body. It was cold and wet. All three of them were wet, like they'd been lost in a rain storm 

“He’s cold,” she murmurs, looking up to Harrion, he seems to have tears in his eyes. He takes off his cloak and covers Robb’s private parts. 

“Help me make him whole again Harrion.”

She sobs quietly, the eyes of all the men are still on her a she sews Robb back together. Harrion's hand guiding her with each stitch. She would not have her husband go to the gods in such a state. He would be a whole man again. 

Once she is finished she sit with him, running her fingers through his russet hair. The colour was still vibrant with life, just like fire. 

**

She has Thoros and his brotherhood collect wood from the forest to build the pyre. She had wanted to bury Robb at Winterfell, but that was impossible now. The great platform they had built would be enough. It had to be. 

Dany watched as they built, one of her eggs in her arms, the others lay in the space between her crossed legs. They had been whispering to her again. She was still wearing the black tunic; her hands were stained with dried blood, her silver hair loose and wild. 

Harrion and Ser Jorah placed each of the bodies on the pyre with delicate care as she instructed. When they had finished, she climbs up to see him for one last time and place a tender kiss on his cold blue lips. Blue like his eyes had been. Eyes she will never see again. She places his bronze circlet on his chest. One of Thoros’s men had stumbled upon it in the woods while collecting wood in the pyre and tried to keep it for himself. 

She kisses her mother on the forehead and nuzzles Grey Wind’s fur with her cheek for the last time. She remembers when he had been nothing but a pup in the courtyard at Winterfell. Her son had been a pup too. Now he was gone too.

“Bring my eggs and place them there,” she commands to Thoros as she climbs down. He does as he is bid. 

“Your Grace, King Robb and your lady mother will have no use for these in the afterlife,” says Ser Jorah. “We could sell them, cross the Narrow Sea and leave this place.”

“They were not given to me to sell,” Dany replies not taking her eyes away from the pyre. She thinks of her wedding feast, how handsome Robb had been in the candlelight. How their mother had smiled. 

For a moment she wishes she could burn her son with them, but then she remembers that there was likely nothing left of him to burn at all. 

Harrion stands next to Ser Jorah and they both kneel before her in reverence. 

“My Queen, we vow to serve you, obey you, and die for you if need be,” says Ser Jorah looking up at her. She can see his distress, but she only smiles softly. 

“I can see what you intend to do Your Grace, please do not. There has to be another way. I will not stand by and watch you burn,” says Harrion getting to his feet.

Dany looks into her friend’s dark eyes and caresses his cheek. “Is that what you fear my friend?”

**

Dany turns towards the men; some her own, mostly Mormonts, Karstarks and a few Umbers. The others who serve Thoros watch her intently, curiously. Most were bearded, many had weapons, armour and horses of their own, all looked tired, bereaved and lost. 

“I see the faces of men and boys who are tired of war and fighting. I free you of your service. Take your belongings and go home to the North if you wish, no one shall stop you. But if you stay, you shall be my Queensguard, brothers in arms, united to serve justice and avenge the innocent.”

She can feel the hot tears trickling down her cheeks, her voice shaking and her teeth threatening to chatter. She wills herself to sounds clear and firm. She could not be weak again. 

Some of the men who look like smallfolk stumbled away into the forest, a few of the youngest Umbers did as well. She doesn’t allow Ser Jorah to chase after them. 

She is a queen, the descendent of dragon riders and the seed of Aegon the Conqueror. Queens kept their word and their voices could not waver. 

“I am Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen. The Queen in the North, whose name is Stark and I swear to you, that those who have harmed the North will die screaming. We will take back what was stolen from us and destroy those who have wrong us. We will lay waste to their armies and burn their castles to the ground. And then we shall go home.”

Thoros looks into her eyes as if he were reading her thoughts and nods. He begins to smile as he hands her both of his torches. She takes both, first lighting the pyre on the south side and then on the north side. 

The flames engulfed the pyre reminding Dany of orange silks blowing in a breeze and the tower of Casterly Rock that had fallen before her while her son kicked within her. Both sights were so beautiful. Part of the flames were red, like Robb’s hair. Soon she could smell burning flesh and smoke. She steps closer to feel the heat of the roaring fire. It feels sweet against her skin, like when she would play candles tricks to make Arya laugh with wonder or feel the heat of her eggs after letting them sit in warm embers. 

She steps closer still. 

Some of the logs and branches begin to snap and fall apart causing an unfurling of billowing grey smoke. She can hear many of the men coughing from the smoke, she can hear Harrion’s voice calling out to her asking her to come back but the whispers were louder and it sounded like Robb’s at Riverrun. 

_Don’t forget who you are. _

Robb had seen the truth before she did. He said it out loud while she only felt it inside of her, heard it whisper in the night like the whistle of a brisk autumn wind. 

At last, she steps into the flames, the heat wrapping her in a lover’s embrace, within the pyre stones begin to crack. 

**

When the fire finally dies Harrion finds her amongst the soot and ash. She is naked, much of her silver hair had singed off, leaving it burnt black at the ends that fell to her shoulders... yet she is unharmed. 

A cream-coloured dragon is suckling at her right breast, the green one at her left. A silvery beast is nestled on her right shoulder like a baby bird on a tree branch. The biggest one which is black and scarlet rested its talons delicately in her out-stretched palm. When it senses Harrion’s presence it tilts it’s small head curiously. 

Speechless, the Northman falls to his knees, Ser Jorah and Thoros do the same. Slowly every man in the encampment bows before her as if the clearing were a temple and she the goddess crafted of marble and gold. Those who dare to look at her did so with wide-eyed awe. 

Daenerys knew they were hers now; today, tomorrow and forever in a way no vassel was unto his sovereign. 

“The Queen in the North!” she hears Harrion murmur towards the ground. 

‘The Queen in the North” cries Ser Jorah a little louder, still unable to meet her gaze. 

“The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!” Soon every man in the clearing his shouting for her.

As Daenerys rose to her feet, each of her children cry out towards the dawn and for the first time in three hundred years Westeros came alive with the song of dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my very best to be as implicit as I could with the graphic elements of this chapter, not go into detail, but still tell the story in the way I imagined it. I hope I accomplished that. I'm really sorry if all that was too much.
> 
> I also wanted to end this chapter on a more uplifting note after all the sadness. Dany's journey is just getting started now that she has her dragons. Stay tuned for the next instalment.
> 
> Also: The dance I mentioned before "La Volta" that's actually a real renaissance dance style, I didn't make it up myself. It was popular during the Elizabethan period in England. 
> 
> Also also: I'm looking for a beta writer to run things by. You can message me on tumblr if you're interested: https://makemejanebirkin.tumblr.com/


End file.
